


Girl with the Camera

by TheSolarSurfer



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate History, Angst, Civil Unrest, Cold War, Drama, Gen, Maybe - Freeform, Mystery, Nazis, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Romance, Suspense, i dont know what else to tag, no love triangles, probably, the resistance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 18:13:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7184807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSolarSurfer/pseuds/TheSolarSurfer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a month since the Crown Prince's assassin has been caught, and a strange but tense peace has fallen between the JPS and the GNR. No one has seen Joe since he escaped to Mexico with the last film. The Resistance has gone quiet. Juliana goes to work as usual, but all is not well in San Francisco. Danger looms, and the answers Juliana wants lie with the unlikeliest person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, new story :) I love the Amazon series Man in the High Castle, and I'm reading the book right now. This is based on the series and I'll keep to it, but it'll be completely AU by the time the second season comes out. There's also not a lot of fics for this categorym
> 
> Not quite sure what I'm doing with this quite yet, it's still early stages. But I have a basic plot in mind, and I'm set on both POV characters and length of chapters, which are going to be pretty short compared to what I usually write. On the other hand, everything happens in conjunction or right after one another when switching POVs, so it should be pretty fast-paced, at least as I can figure.
> 
> Also title will probably change, but it's what I've got for now. If you have better ideas, please leave it in a review!

_**GIRL WITH THE CAMERA** _

* * *

Chapter One

She woke under a gray sky.

The drum of rain against the metal canopy, rhythmic and meditative, made it difficult at first. In those few moments in the twilight between dreams and consciousness, she felt like she was floating, adrift in a calm, endless sea.

A shrill car horn sent the girl flying upwards, startled and gasping. Everything hit her at once — the cold of the seat, the wetness of the air, the fact that there was traffic less than ten feet from her, and a busy stream of pedestrians on their way to work. The sudden noise, the motion and people, left the girl feeling overwhelmed for a second, dazed and confused.

Hand on her chest, she recovered relatively quickly, and found the cold to be a greater concern than the loud cars. She shivered and looked this way and that, beyond the cramped little cars, and taking in the buildings beyond. Sloping streets, stone houses lined up side-by-side, terracotta roofs. The familiar signs of San Francisco.

The girl looked up, transfixed by the red paper lanterns that danced back and forth on the breeze. They were strung up between the buildings, bridging the street at even intervals. They continued up and down the street, as far as the eye could see.

She looked down at herself, at the rolled-up jeans and tennis shoes, laced with mud. The reason for her chilliness: no coat, no scarf, just a black tee with Pink Floyd's _The_ _Dark Side of the Moon_ logo emblazoned across it, and a blue plaid shirt, two sizes too big.

She wrapped her arms around herself, hunching up her shoulders against the cold. Next to her on the bench was a backpack, a skateboard strapped to it. Stitched on the front of the bag was a name: Annabeth.

The bag appeared untouched. No one had mishandled it while she was asleep. Annabeth pressed her hand to her face, pushing her glasses further up her nose to examine the bag in better detail. Lifting up the backpack revealed it to be quite heavy; unzipping it, she found a textbook and some crumpled paper inside. Her history homework.

Also in the bag was a small book — _To Kill a Mockingbird_. It's pages were bent by a Super 8 camera lying on top of it, along with three boxes of new camera film.

Smiling at the sight of it, she reached in and pulled out the camera. Paper crinkled, the camera pulling the book with it, the book falling in her lap. Something landed on her foot, dislodged from inside the book.

Annabeth frowned, bending to pick up what was an envelope, wax seal and all. On the back, written in Japanese script, read the following:

_To be Given Immediately to_

_Chief Inspector Kido_

_A Missive from_

_Nobusuke Tagomi, Trade Minister_

What a strange thing to have. Annabeth stared at the names, uncomprehending. She didn't recognize either of them. The letter appeared important though, and the titles were intimidating. This instructions seemed to denote a message of urgency.

It seemed as though she was meant to deliver this. Annabeth was a little hesitant at first, doubtful of the idea. Who would leave something seemingly so important with a 14-year-old girl?

But if she didn't, who would? Besides, whoever did give this to her must have trusted her to handle it well.

It seemed like a reasonable thing to do.

She reached up to put her thick dark hair in a ponytail, only to discover that she had no hairband to begin with. Making a face, Annabeth just sighed and stood up, packing up her bag again and pulling out her skateboard. The rain had softened to a light misting, allowing her to step out from beneath the canopy without getting soaked. Slinging her backpack over her shoulders and dropping her skateboard to the sidewalk, Annabeth stepped on and pushed herself forward, downhill.

In the distance, the white marble building glowed like a ghost out of a sea of fog, stately and cold. The Hall of Justice, and where Annabeth was headed to first.


	2. Juliana Crain

**Chapter Two**

**Juliana Crain**

* * *

Juliana did not think that the world would return to normal.

It was raining that morning, water seeping in under the door and falling into the drain as she got up and dressed. Frank didn't move from his half of the bed; he'd fallen asleep with his glasses on again. She carefully slid them off his face, setting them gently on the bedside table before leaving for work.

The sky was gray and motionless above her head, an endless blanket of dour haziness that would continue throughout the day. Her shadow had disappeared, as if forgetting it had a soul to follow.

Three weeks ago, after helping Joe escape, Juliana did not think that she could return to her basement apartment. She did not think she would see Frank again, waiting for her there at the bottom of the steps, silent and pacing. She did not expect to receive a call from her mother, sobbing, telling her about receiving Trudy's death certificate in the mail. Arnold, her father — step-father, to be specific — had not told her mother anything. Would he ever?

But above all, Juliana didn't expect to wake up the next morning in that same bed she had been sleeping in for the past couple years, that she should have abandoned the other day. She should've been waking up in Mexico right now, free from the Kempeitai, from the Third Reich. She should be gone.

Or she should be dead.

Juliana wasn't sure which option was better. What she did know was this path, the one she was currently on, was the unlikeliest.

And it just felt so wrong.

As she waited for the bus, huddled under the bus-stop with a shaky umbrella, Juliana felt like she was lying to herself. It was ironic, considering this has been the most honest she has ever been in about three weeks. She held no lies with Frank, Joe, or the Resistance. Arnold knew pieces, just enough not to ask for more. Her mother knew nothing, the safest she could ever be. Juliana had already made enough mistakes; she wouldn't risk anyone else's lives again.

As the bus came to a slow, screeching stop in front of her, it came to Juliana. This was it. This was her second chance. For some reason, God, the Universe, the Man in the High Castle, or whoever was in charge — had decided she should continue as she was.

Juliana stepped onto the bus. She wasn't sure if she deserved it.

And if this was a second chance, what could she do different?

Settling in the back of the bus, as was her place, Juliana turned her gaze out the window, watching as the world turned into a meaningless wash of gray as the bus returned to its route.

The Resistance had since disappeared from San Francisco. Juliana doubted she would ever get word from Karen or Lem again. Not after betraying them, allowing Joe to escape to Mexico. A part of her couldn't believe it herself; helping a Nazi spy, a man she saw kill Frank without the bat of an eye, in a film reel from another world? Frank wouldn't have done it. Hell, not even Arnold would've done it, and that bastard was afraid of his own reflection.

But Joe had confessed. He had defected. Somehow, Juliana was the reason why. She accepted it. A part of her was grateful, even. But he still couldn't stay.

Not after he killed those Yakuza.

The glass of the window reflected her gaze. Juliana studied this woman staring back at her. A stranger wearing her face. Blue eyes, dark hair, square jaw — owned by someone else. The eyes, dark circles, haunted. Mouth, lips pressed thin, downturned.

The bus was utterly quiet aside from its engine and the occasional chatter. Juliana understood very little of it, as her mother never approved of her learning Japanese, which was a bit of a disadvantage when you're a white living in the Japanese Pacific States.

Her mother would hate to learn that Juliana was still trying to learn.

As the bus came to a stop at an intersection, Juliana's thoughts were broken by a strange sight outside.

On a bench, under a canopy, slept a girl.

Juliana tilted her head, leaning forward in her seat, slightly bewildered. It was certainly a girl, nearly a child, curled up on the green-painted wood with her head resting against a backpack. Glasses were skewed on her face, but it was clear she was white. Her clothes were thin, no jacket for the rain.

Her first thought was that the girl was homeless, which wasn't exactly far-fetched. She certainly wouldn't be going to school looking like that — all the ones in the city had enforced uniform codes, something Juliana would certainly never forget after having to live through it herself. A girl in jeans and a ratty old shirt wouldn't even be let inside the doors, much less sit in the back of the class.

But it was just as likely the girl was a visitor, playing hooky, or perhaps a running away from home; maybe a farm-girl looking to make it big in the city. What the truth was, Juliana couldn't divine.

None of the passerby paid the sleeping girl any mind. Not that Juliana expected they would. Had the girl been Japanese, then that would've been cause for concern. But they didn't care for the average child, a possible runaway. A dime a dozen, really.

Juliana studied the girl for a second more, jealousy curling in her stomach. There was something so peaceful, so innocent in that sleeping girl, unaware of her own surroundings, the wetness, the terrible state of things. Of what they could be. Of what they could never be.

The pedestrians cleared and the bus rumbled again, starting forward, leaving the girl behind. Juliana's gaze followed her until the bench fell out of sight.

Runaway, lost children weren't necessarily an oddity in San Francisco. Sometimes they weren't even lost at all. Perhaps that girl was just waiting for her ride home. Perhaps she just had a late night.

But it didn't feel right. Something about the girl had been off, but Juliana couldn't put her finger on it. She certainly couldn't figure it out now, since the girl was long out of sight. Maybe it was just the sight of a child alone that made Juliana uncomfortable, and the girl stuck out in her mind all the more because of it.

She just sighed, falling back in her seat. Juliana's life was full of questions. Why should this day be any different?

Still, she could not push the girl from her mind. Not when the bus stopped in front of the city hall, not when Juliana's purse was checked, not when she climbed the steps to the Trade office.

Her thoughts were only broken after she hung up her coat and umbrella, and went into Mr. Tagomi's office to ready his tea.

Only to find that he wasn't there.

The empty desk startled her for a moment. Mr. Tagomi, an old man of over sixty, was always punctual. He was here before almost any of the other office workers, even Mr. Kotomichi, his assistant. There were no new flowers on the desk to indicate that he had been there the day previous. Just a bundle of sticks and some incense, left on his ink blotter as though forgotten.

Juliana frowned, stepped away from the teapot. Just when she was about to question Kotomichi's presence, the man appeared in the doorway, frowning at her. "Have you see him?"

His sudden appearance made her jump, and she forgot to bow her head or avert her eyes before saying, "Who? Mr. Tagomi? I-I saw him just the other day…"

Somehow, Juliana had a strange feeling that this was her fault. That Kotomichi would find a way to blame her for this tardiness of their boss. It seemed to be the main source of ire in that man. Much unlike Mr. Tagomi, utterly unflappable and gracious to a fault. Juliana didn't truly respect anyone as much as she did him; a man who saw not her skin, but the person beneath.

She wondered if he ever saw too much. Likewise, Juliana feared that Kotomichi might also know.

But Kotomichi's face was pinched with concern, not the contempt he usually held for Juliana. His eyes kept flicking to the desk, the phone. "As did I. No one has seen Mr. Tagomi since yesterday afternoon."

Juliana tensed. She still hadn't looked away from Kotomichi. His words rang in her ears, impossible sounds that shouldn't be strung together. "W-what are you saying?"

His eyes found hers. "Mr. Tagomi is missing."


	3. Frank Frink

**Chapter Three**

**Frank Frink**

* * *

Frank woke up that morning, alone.

This was not unusual, the fact alone bothering him. For three weeks, he had only known a strange sense of peace, of quiet. A calmness in the air that belied a tension in his heart.

It shouldn't be like this, not for him. Not after witnessing the ruthless killings of three Yakuza, done by his own illegally-made gun, with old bullets, used by a Nazi spy. A crime that should've been his to pay for.

Instead, Ed took the fall.

 _Goddammit, Ed._ Frank squinted his eyes shut against the dim light in the cellar, pressing palms across his face. _How did you even know? Why would you do such a fucking stupid thing?_

Frank should not be here, lying comfortable in his own bed. He should be in that cell again. Not Ed McCarthy, not anyone else.

No one else should have to die for his mistakes.

Unlike Juliana, Frank couldn't just wake up and go to work like nothing was wrong. He sort of envied her tenacity, the ability to keep going - even if it made her come off a little cold. But that was just the way Juliana was; a bus didn't stop her from getting up after breaking her leg. It didn't stop her from learning Aikido after she got the cast off, to strengthen herself again.

...Or running off to Canon City to help the Resistance, and team-up with aforementioned Nazi spy along the way. Nothing really _stopped_ Juliana. Nothing ever made her think, for one second, that this was all a terrible idea, that this could hurt the people she - no, _they_ \- cared about.

No. She just got back up and pretended that everything was normal again.

She was sort of funny like that.

Frank sighed, eventually pulling himself out of bed. He couldn't remember where his glasses went, then found them on the bedside table. Had Juliana done that? Frank kept forgetting, his nights had become so restless. Still, he felt a touch of warmth at the idea that Juliana had taken them off. He didn't know what it meant - maybe it didn't mean anything, but he wanted it to. He wanted to think that there was still some of the old Juliana left in her. That maybe everything _could_ go back to normal.

Even if he knew that was impossible. But he clung to that feeling, that small flutter of hope in his chest.

Sometimes, it just seemed like every little gesture might tip the scale between order and chaos.

Slipping on his glasses, Frank winced at the sudden clarity, his eyes still unused to the light. It was mid-morning now, far too late to be this tired. A part of him wanted to go back to sleep, to close his eyes against the cold cement walls, to pretend he didn't live under the feet of the Japanese.

Their apartment (a rather generous term, in Frank's opinion) was meager, but its familiarity always brought him a sense of comfort. His paintings, which would probably never see the light of day, were old friends, welcoming in warm colors and inviting shapes. Not quite finished, begging for more oil, promising beauty and satisfaction that only he could fully realize. Then there was the kitchen with its faulty stove, the old pots and pans Juliana's mother gave them, the slightly dented silverware that still shone under the right light. The dusy TV with bent antennas, the cracked-leather couch seats, the coffee table stained with dozens of coffee rings.

All there. The same as they ever were. A kind reminder of what Frank still had.

There was no use stewing about the past, he knew that. He almost had to learn the hard way of what happened to people who let themselves get too obsessed. Frank knew better than to overthink things, even when logic begged to be implemented. Logic that Juliana never cared for, at any rate.

He wasn't sure what folly was it that had him head over heels for that woman. They had gone to school together, here in San Francisco — she had been the quiet, watchful older sister to Trudy, who was loud and popular and got into too much trouble. But Frank had appreciated the way Juliana listened, head tilted forward and eyes wide and focused, to everyone who spoke to her. She made you feel like you were the only person in the entire world. How she was beautiful no matter what she wore; which tended to be old hand-me-downs, rough brown skirts and penny loafers, tweed jackets too old for her; yet Juliana never complained. She didn't desire a high life, and never blamed Frank for their problems, even if most of them were his fault.

Then there was her Mona Lisa smile, small and almost polite, but truly mysterious in that it never faltered no matter what she was really thinking. As mysterious as her quiet comings and goings, like she was always off on running secret errands.

It took years before Frank realized just how accurate that description would be. Some people never really changed.

Juliana had her reasons for what she did, he knew that, even if Frank didn't quite understand them himself. She saw the big picture, something Frank couldn't because he was too busy just trying not to slip between the cracks and be swallowed up by a society that wanted none of him. He saw the tiny bits that maybe were under-appreciated; the family they still had, the home that would never leave their feet, a government that wouldn't hunt them down so long as they kept their heads low. All good things, if you just knew where to look for them.

Frank laughed at himself, his own willful ignorance. Was this his optimism talking, or just his fear of change?

It seemed to be a great chore just getting himself to the bathroom, to face his reflection and pick up the razor. Why shave when he had nowhere to go? He'd lost his job at the factory which, while not great, had been _something_. Factory work was stable, it was reliable, it was honest. Frank had been working at the gunsmith since he was sixteen. It was all he knew.

And now he didn't even have that.

But shaving was a habit Frank refused to drop just because it held no purpose. If he stopped, then what else would he give up next? Hygiene? Cleanliness? _Art_? If he couldn't find the motivation to shave, then what was the point of anything?

No, he couldn't just give up. He wouldn't live the rest of his life in this goddamn basement like a dirty rat.

He wasn't sure what he'd do. Maybe go back to the factory. Convince his boss to

give him his job back. Beg, if he had to. Just so he could have some semblance of normalcy back in his life. And seeing Ed everyday always managed to lift his spirits.

Except Ed was in jail.

 _Oh, fuck._ The razor slipped in his hand, dug into his cheek.

Recoiling, Frank accidentally dropped the razor, and it clattered into the sink as he pressed his hand against the new cut on his face. He cursed under his breath. Great. Just when the others were starting to heal, too.

How was it that he could so quickly forget that Ed had taken the fall? Frank reached down, gripped the razor so tightly his knuckles went white. He had dreams of getting revenge, of finding Inspector Kido and doing to him what he did to Frank's family. No, worse than that. Gassing was too tame, too quick for that man. And not just Kido, but the entire Japanese Empire, the Nazi's, Hitler himself. Nothing was too far when it came to the Fuhrer. Sometimes Frank dreamed of bringing an end to it all himself.

...But that's all they were. Dreams. Nightmares. Useless in the face of reality, of what truly was. Frank wouldn't stoop to their level. He won't become as murderers and monsters of the likes of them.

With sullen resolve, Frank finished shaving his face, careful not to nick himself again. He set the razor on the edge of the sink, rubbing his now smooth chin.

He decided he wasn't going back to the factory. He wasn't going to exact righteous vengeance like those cowboy sheriffs in the old stories.

No. Frank was going to do the opposite. He was going to try to save Ed's life.


End file.
